blog.drunkard.com

What the Hell?

August 19, 2009 7:36 pm Richard Rant, Uncategorized

I love drinking in Denver, and have always believed that this city has produced some of America’s foremost drinkers. I mean, you don’t get voted “Drunkest City in America” three times unless people around here have their sozzled shit wired tight. But something weird and foul has reared its odious little head in my town. And not only in my town, but right on Colfax Ave., no less—one of the country’s last bastions of dizzy debauchery; of free-wheeling and fuddled fun.

I won’t name bar in question (mostly because, for reasons that needn’t be rehashed here, I hate them and they hate me) other than to say it pretends to be an Irish pub, and this: it sponsors a running club.

Yes, a running club.

And not one of those cool sort of clubs where you stop every mile or two and shotgun a beer. No, this is an honest-to-Bruce-fucking-Jenner club for people who jog. Just jog; without shame, without fear, and, apparently, without so much as a jot or a tittle of booze. They pop inside the bar for water. Water! And on top of that, they have T-shirts. For real. T-shirts that say “The Blah-Blah Running Cub” or something equally daffy, with a little logo to round out the whole Up With People atmosphere.

What the hell is this? I mean it simply makes no sense. It’s non-Euclidian. It’s like AA sponsoring a shot luge, or the Southern Baptist Convention getting behind “Harvey Milk Day.” The words “running” and “bar” don’t even belong in the same sentence (other than this one, I guess). Bars sponsor darts leagues, pool tournaments, trivia contests, karaoke, motorcycle rallies, and that kind of thing. Gyms sponsor running clubs. I was bitching about this the other night and a guy said my thinking was too conventional. Maybe so, but look at it this way. Do you go to the zoo to see the critters, or to play golf? Do you visit a brothel to rent some rumble-tumble, or play Skeeball?

And another thing: jogging is just stupid all on its lonesome. Running just to run? That’s what hamsters do, and they have a brain roughly the size of a sunflower seed. You ever take a good look at a jogger? They look fucking miserable, man. Loping along, soaked in sweat, with this face like they just swallowed a maggoty turd. And the really serious runners, the marathoners, the 20-mile-a-day dingbats, they barely look like people anymore, with their ropey arms and legs, and their skin baked to that splendid shade of melanoma brown. They look like beef jerky in track shoes.

Who would do such a thing on purpose? I’m running, there had better be a pile of gold or a hot willing lady in front of me, or something with a gun and fangs and a snotty fucking attitude behind. Otherwise, let’s play basketball, or run from a herd of cranky bulls, or make it to the liquor store before it closes. Then, at least, you’re expending lots of energy for a demonstrable purpose.

Now, I realize that, with the economy the way it is, a bar has to address its attractions to stay in the long green, but damn. A bar sponsoring a running club is an affront against the gods. At least the ones who have taken any interest in my wobbly world. I plan to park my truck along one of their jogging routes with several cases of beer on ice. I dunno, just to fuck with ‘em, I guess.

Cheers.

M	T	W	T	F	S	S
« Sep
			1	2	3	4
5	6	7	8	9	10	11
12	13	14	15	16	17	18
19	20	21	22	23	24	25
26	27	28	29	30	31

What the Hell?

Blogroll

Recent Posts

Archives